


a daisy by any other name

by SearchingforSerendipity



Series: o fado do desterrado [2]
Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Flowers and Languages, Language of Flowers, Portuguese Daniel Sousa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 23:46:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7409929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SearchingforSerendipity/pseuds/SearchingforSerendipity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Daniel never sends them to her work station, thank god, they're both too professional for that. Peggy, who was never a flowery child, and had not grown into a greater lover of all things fine and natural, was bewildered if not pleased. </p><p>At least she wasn't allergic; that would have been awkward."</p><p>Not long after they start stepping out together Daniel starts an unusual tradition. Peggy isn't complaining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a daisy by any other name

On their first date, he gives her daisies.

Peggy lifts an eyebrow when she sees them. They're common flowers, the sort he must have plucked from the sidewalk, pressed together with a frayed red ribbon she's pretty sure was once a bookend. But there's a certain charm about them, and she accepts them with a nod.

It becomes a recurrent thing. Not every time, but most of their dates begin with an offer of a similar bouquet. Always daisy, but never the same kind of Daisy on a row- yellow petals with a yellow heart, white petals with a yellow heart, some with shocking blue and purple petals, and her favorite, yellow and black, like miniature sunflowers. After the same sort bouquets run out, he starts mixing them together, so they look like little bobbles of yellows and purples and whites.

Daniel never sends them to her work station, thank god, they're both too professional for that, but sometimes she sees him smile at her with a rather besotted look, and that's quite flattering enough. Peggy, who was never a flowery child, and had not grown into a greater lover of all things fine and natural, was bewildered if not pleased. At least she wasn't allergic; that would have been awkward.

It does makes her curious about possible symbolism. They are, after all, member of the SSR, and codes are a part of their daily lives. Her own knowledge of flower language, thought by a grandmother inclined to live by Victorian mores, is no help in that regard. Purity and innocence for the white, new beginnings. There was a book she got from the local library that informed her daisies implied that the sender was capable of keeping a secret, which was just was well, since by that point they had a growing collection of shared misdeeds. But no, that wasn't it either.

 

She keeps them by her bedside table and invariably lets them die. Thankfully, he's so primpt with his offerings that her vase rarely has time to be empty before another bouquet fills it. She has to admit, it does bring her room to life.

 

Eventually she asks him. They're on a park, strolling, because apparently strolling is a thing they both enjoy when they're silly and on their way to being in love. This time he didn't bring her any daisies - instead he plucked them for her, leaning down on his clutch and twining them together. She watches his deft fingers weave stem after steam without bunching the petals.

"Your Royal Highness, Margaret of House Carter." He bows when presenting them to her, smile boyish. She takes the crown gravely, settling it among her curls just so.

"Thank you, kind sir." They grin at each other, small fond smiles.

"Why daisies?" She asks, when his arm is twined with hers again. "Not to complain, they're quite lovely, but somehow I got the impression that you'd be the sort to offer red roses to a beau."

"I know you don't like red roses." He defended, flushing around the nose. "You only like the yellow ones, because they remind you of your mother's garden."

Peggy almost stops. Doesn't, because she's Peggy Carter and Peggy Carter doesn't stumble, much less stop over some silly words. But she hadn't expected him to remember. She'd never said it outright; only that there had been mainly red roses around her mother's grave, and yellow roses growing in her mother's garden, withering to brown after her death, when Peggy's thumb proved to be more black than green.

"You didn't answer my question." She points out. Not just to change the subject, but because she likes his blush. "Come now, I promise not to laugh, even if it's very daft."

He's the one who laughs, embarrased. "Thank you. No, it's not very daft, I don't think, just sentimental."

"A for more grievous offense." She says, all British dignity. It leaves in a moment to be replaced by a smirk.

"Well, it's just your name."

"My name?" She repeats, surprised.

"Margaret. Margarida, in Portuguese. It means daisy." He shrugs, not looking down but almost rubbing the back of his neck before stopping himself. "I told you, it's rather silly."

Peggy considers it, very studiously ignore her own blush. "I think it's rather sweet. Don't stop the traditions."

"Ma'am, yes Ma'am." He salutes, moving away from her swat to the arm. She almost doesn't mind when a couple of bees decide to make a meal out of her crown.

 

The next Saturday they decide to meet for brunch at a little cafe Ana had recommended. Like clockwork, he'd presented her with a bouquet of daisies, this time wrapped in grey twine. She tells him to hold it before lifting a choice one from the bouquet and sticking it to his front pocket. A blue one, to go with the jacket and the open sky above.


End file.
